Late Thursday night, didn’t plan on writing at all – no inspiration. Sometime around 10:30pm I killed the lights and decided to head to bed, Sharaun pre-sleeping me by about 30min already. Tomorrow’s her birthday, you know (today, as you read this). Anyway, I ended up in the computer room sitting at the desk – sometimes that works better for writing than the laptop/couch combo. Queued up the Andrew Bird album, longing to remember last Christmas – what it reminds me of. So now I’m listening to it, sitting here without a shirt on, my hair freshly cut. I’ve noticed I started going shirtless around the house more in the evenings. This is a good sign to me that my old age is beginning to blind me to the true shock-value of my body hair. I always wondered if the hairy dudes at the beach had an iron-clad sense of self assurance, or were just oblivious. As I get older, I’m thinking it’s more than likely oblivious… as I am slowly ceasing to care. I could talk about this forever, you know. Let’s not let that happen, for the good of the… b-to-the-l-to-the-o-to-the-g.
Not a bad week in terms of stuff-done-getting, or something. Mowed the lawn Wednesday, got my hairs cut Thursday, and on top of it all had a prideswell of a week at work. Y’know, even though it’s a good chance to get to listen to a couple hours of unadulterated music with ample time for a wandering mind, I still think I hate mowing the lawn. Oh sure, I talk about secretly liking it somewhere deep within me – but mostly I hate having to do it. I wish my lawn was goth, so it’d cut itself.
It freaks me out when I look at myself in pictures and I realize I actually brush my little tuft of bangs to the right, instead of how I see myself doing it every morning in the mirror.
More on photo fraud (you’ll need sound).
The more I look at Keaton’s face, the more I’m convinced I’m getting closer to seeing what she’s going to really look like. You know what I mean, baby’s faces are poor indications of their aged appearance – but I’ve almost convinced myself I can catch a glimpse of the bits of permanence hiding under all the furiously growing bone and muscle. Sometimes, when she smiles, I can almost picture it – catch a glimpse of her as a young woman: strong-willed and intelligent, athletic, impeccable taste in music and well versed in its history, cautiously optimistic. Then I think, “I have no idea.” Nothing I think I see is any real indicator, most of those traits are more like projected hopes. But man, when I hoist that little girl overhead in a Superman pose – my huge hands wrapped around her body where I can feel her tiny ribs under my thumbs – and she lets loose with a smile so pure it opens her mouth pelican-wide, stretches her pink lips thin, and pushes her cheeks up into her eyes… it’s magic in my heart people; pure magic.
You’re smiling at me, aren’t you?
Happy birthday Sharaun, I love you. Goodnight.